


Ship of Hope

by Effybean



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Drabble, Eating Disorders, I have no idea, Kind of Depressing, Mycroft-centric, it's 1 AM and I'm exhausted sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effybean/pseuds/Effybean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't need people when your disease takes such good care of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ship of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching one of those Lifetime movies about eating disorders because I torture myself, and the end had Birdy's cover of Terrible Love in it and it actually made me cry a bit. I basically had to write something or I'll never manage to get to sleep, and it's been awhile since I've slept so...yeah. 
> 
> No character names are mentioned, because I might want to turn this into something more, I'm not sure. Apologies if it's confusing or ridiculous. As I said.... 1 AM. Tired. Sigh.

He sees the bones, when he allows himself to.

         He holds on to the dips his hipbones make, handles of comfort. Counts his ribs obsessively to make sure they're still there. Calms himself with skin stretched tight over bone.

        There's something odd about living a life where you are never settled down. You have your family, your loved ones, but no one is nearby. No one is physically close. And it's easy to deceive yourself when no one is physically close. There's no one there to touch you or hold you, no one to ground you and remind you that you're still human, even at the end of the day when you're high on adrenaline and feel like you could float. Until you fall into bed and can't sleep, because you feel like you need to do everything now…now…. _nownownownow_. There is no tomorrow, there is no patience. You need everything to happen now. So up you get, to write, to think, to sing, to dance, to play, to burn, to feel. Sitting with yourself is hard. Sitting with others is hard. So you sit with your demons and allow them to finally lull you to sleep.

        He mulled over these thoughts uncomfortably as he counted ribs with his right hand and cupped his hipbone with his left. The motions with his hands were the only thing soothing him enough to actually think about what he could do at this point. He was losing his mind. He wasn't concentrating as well. He made a dry comment to his brother about middle age, how it gets to all of us, oh yes. He didn't mention the fact that he hadn't eaten in days, which was why his language acquisition was down. He didn't mention how he nearly collapsed when going undercover and blew everything. He would never mention it. Ever.

       His brother knew anyways. The nights spent making friends with the tiles of the bathroom floor, trying to drown out the fact that all people feel things, and he was no exception. He would eat and eat and eat when he thought no one knew he was, and then he would gag and heave his way to oblivion. They had always both gone to extremes to avoid their emotions. With the drugs, he could threaten his brother, tell him it was no good, that he had to get clean. With food…he couldn't threaten the removal of that from his brother's life, because he knew the dear thing would just pick up on the abstinence aspect and run with it. And he was too thin already.

      They both were. They were skeletons encasing hearts beating with human blood, great brains that they put toward good use, the mess of organs and systems required of a body to function. Skeletons that were entirely too fragile.

       _It's a shame_ , the handsome detective had said one day. _It's a shame you're intent on hurting yourself, when there's so much in you to love_.

       As much as his brother insulted the man, the detective…he was smart. He picked up on something they tried to keep hidden, that very few people were even close to aware of. Or perhaps on a particularly bad day, his brother had told him, mind hazy with drugs. Somehow he wasn't as bothered by that as he was by most people knowing. If he could stand to be touched, or to talk about important things, he would pursue that...whatever it was. Flirtation. Passing fancy, most like

          The real shame was that he couldn't do that. There were years of walls built up around him, and he just couldn't see a way in which the messy, confusing mass of human emotion and sex and sweat and blood could be better than this secret he carried with him everywhere. Maybe…maybe someday. But he had been telling himself that for years now, and the idea never made him feel any better. _You'll put it off until you're dead,_ the logical side of him hissed. _Do you really think this diet, this regime you're on, is what your life is about? You could have something. Something more than work, exercise, and food. You really could._

      He stopped that voice right there.

Those were dangerous thoughts.

He wasn't alone. He had his secrets. He had himself.

Did he need anything else?


End file.
